Category Archives: Feminism

Ladies! Ladies, ladies! Must we go on hating on other speci-women due to our own lapses of self-esteem?! We all have issues at times, I’ll give you that. The fucking ego is a tricky mechanism; and as much as it’s beneficiary when propelling us forward, if not handled — it will drag down our otherwise fabulous selves. But the thing is, my womanly comrades, I tend to solve my shit BEFORE I step out into the world every day.

It goes like this: Wake up. Brush the teeth. Check-in the ego. Then, I proceed with marinating my brain in caffeine for a couple of hours while I clock-in for the sake of my career; so that as the day progresses, god forbid I begin to despise the people I work for, who, incidentally, pay for what little freedom I have to pursue my art. So, you see, by the time I lock-up the doors of my home where no one witnesses the exorcism of my own private garbage-baggage, I’ve brushed-off my shoulders from the dandruff of self-manufactured self-hatred. To cause the least amount of distress or pain to a living thing — including myself — is my motto for the day. It is my grace. So I gotta do the work, for no other human should suffer from the echoes of my unhappiness.

What started this lovely rant? I nearly got eaten alive last night. Out on the town on my traditional Saturday-night story hunt, I dared to show up in a place that, for whatever coincidental reason, served as a stage for human sadness. Normally, a swanky joint, last night my spot attracted a demographic of tragically insecure white women. (Forgive me: I say “white” because brown ladies tend to leave me be — unless I’m out with a brother.) With a glass of cranberry juice on the rocks, I slithered in between the crowd, waiting for the late night festivities to start. I made my way to the my regular observatory in the corner of the patio, right by underneath an open fire pit where no other human dared to chill. I leaned the balmy skin of my naked back against the exposed brick wall and started to warm up my venom glands.

It felt like darts, I tell you — darts hurled by well-practiced hands — and they struck into the brown areolae of my braless nipples. The feeling of being watched hit me head to toe, and it suddenly felt as if I got drenched with a bucket of ice-water, head first. I looked in the direction of the stares: a table of five females of various types was studying me in a bone-chilling silence. They must’ve just sat down, for their plates still had the appeal of clean slates, with no evidence of their unhealthy relationships with food. Four out of the five broads were… hmm, how should I say this?… on the heavier side. Not that I would care, my dear comrades: for I find women gorgeous no matter their size!

But these four were obviously tangled-up in a vicious circle of I Eat Because I Hate Myself and I Hate Myself — Because I Eat. The syndrome, I assume, has been already activated when in the company of their girlfriends; and by the time a basket of bread was delivered to their table last night, they began to compete in non-eating.

Now! I don’t tolerate diets, my ladies! I don’t even want to hear it from my girls about their beef with their own weight. My spiel is: be active, eat healthfully — and leave your body be. You’re perfect — so don’t you dare fuck with your gorgeous self. Obviously, my lifestyle choices show up in my appearance — and that very appearance did not sit well with my sisters last night.

Despite my returned stare — I mean, I even raised my eyebrow into a What’s the Problem Here?! arch — the unhappy broads carried on their deconstruction of V. Finally, one of them leaned over and in very well calculated volume said:

“I would never wear that!”

What was I wearing? Does it even matter? Obviously, it was not my choice of clothing that awoke the insecurities of my female comrades: It was my very being! If it weren’t for the dress, they would’ve fished for other evidence with which to tear me down; for that is the only way — at the expense of other women! — that the voice of their self-hatred is soothed, at least for a little while. Would it be better if I buried my feline curvatures underneath on oversized sweater? Not really. It would be better — if I didn’t exist at all!

While the other broads chuckled like hungry hyenas, I unglued my back from the wall and made my way toward the pit of their unhappiness. The author of the bitchy remark had no other choice of action but to take on a sarcastic sneer that disfigured her face into an even more unattractive look. I evaluated the situation while watching the hater from behind the curtain of my hair; and by the time, I reached the table, my ballsy stare made the women get serious and obviously uncomfortable. As I passed, I lifted my glass at the idiot-in-charge in a gesundheit gesture. I mean: What else could I wish her but a better, healthier self?

Only when my eyes left the field of the table, did the broads shifted in their seats. Oh, I could hear them. They were gearing up for further exorcism at other women’s expense. Yet, they still had to wrap up my case. Which they did:

“What a bitch!” The last dart was hurled my way, except it missed its target; for I was already slithering between males dumbified by that same backless dress of mine who began calling me by the name of “Wow.”

Funny, I thought: In either case, I didn’t even say — or do — anything. Alas.

Awaiting a train on an immaculately clean subway platform the other day… What’s that? Subway? Yes: There is a subway in LA-LA City. Mostly ridden by brown people and Downtown’s business types, this magical recent innovation has saved V a lot of headaches caused by the convoluted parking rules, one-way streets, obnoxiously priced valet lots and traffic-congested roads—that look like parking lots—in that happening zip code of ours. On the other hand, I’ve had to confront the utter lack of control and manners on behalf of this city’s male contingent when they express their desire to not only speak to me—but to touch me. What can I say: A walking woman is somewhat of a rarity around here! Yet, still I insist on contributing my coins to the spanking brand new subway ticket machines and reveling in a system with visible time schedules and audible announcements about any possible delays or detours. (Hear that, New Yorkers?! I’m just sayin’.)

Anyway. While chilling on a subway platform the other day and trying on my best Dontcha Fuckin’ Dare Speak to Me face, I was devouring a book by a brown writer… What’s that? A book? Yes, I still read books.

So: Reading a book, on a subway platform, I was brought back to reality by the clickety-clack of stilettos that absolutely had to belong to a beautiful woman. Understandably: V looked up. Poorly balancing in her heels, the young creature wobbling in my direction looked like Bambi. She was blonde and pretty—a perfect newbie in LA. Yet everything about her screamed of wanting a little bit too much and trying a little bit too hard. I’ve seen these creatures in casting sessions before. Fuck: I’ve been one of these creature my first year of auditions! Albeit her prettiness, she hid behind too much make-up, applied by a hand of a four-year old who had stolen it from her mother. The blonde hair was teased to shit into an asymmetrical bouffant completed by a mousey ponytail. Her short black-and-white dress and a pink pashmina made her appear overdressed and utterly unaware of what it takes to navigate this city on foot.

“Clickety-clack… Clack! Clack-clack-clack-clack-clack,” she went past me, nearly tripping over her own feet.

“Oh, honey,” my heart moaned in a half-prayer as it does when witnessing another innocent creature equipped with nothing but her dreams to survive this chaotic, slightly schizophrenic town. But it was only a half-prayer—because I don’t have the time or the strength to adopt and rescue every young soul. And because she had chosen her path—god bless her! And because already having difficulty balancing in those big-girl heels, she could do without the pity by the jaded skeptics like me tripping her over. Besides: Who the fuck am I to project my own failures and embarrassments in LA-LA Land onto a young woman courageous enough to be idealistic?

Oh, but I would leave her alone, my comrades, and return to the hilarious words by my brown writer; but the young girl, who has parked herself on a wooden bench a meter away from me, shook the pink pashmina off her shoulders and revealed a frame so thin, my stomach growled like a guard dog at the gates of GULAG. The view that I got from where I stood was her nearly transparent back with every rib and every vertebra ripping through the bluish-white skin. She slouched a little, in that way of a crying child or a young girl embarrassed of her budding new breasts.

It was grunt by a black guy. C’mon, we all know it: that chesty, sexual, laconic groan that only a brother can pull off which usually means, “I gotta get me some a dat!” Honestly: It’s one of my favorite sounds. Because, in my experience, a black man is hard to discombobulate out of his chill by any woman; and if he is moved, he’ll take his time before actually touching the honey. Prior to the physical contact, however, there will be a dance of slow, self-possessed struts, accompanied by somewhat primal sounds. Like the “Uh!” my brown bystander granted the Bambi on the bench.

I looked over to him: Over 6-feet tall, clad in New York black, with his skin glossy and gorgeous, the man—was a warrior. He noticed me, held his gaze—fucking balls!—smiled ever so slightly, pouted, shook his head and said:

“I dunno.”

I tilted my head, meaning: “Bring it.”

Tuned in, he licked those endless lips of his, formulated the words and said: “Too skinny.” Maybe I nodded a bit too enthusiastically, but the brown creature elaborated: “I like a woman with a little ‘uh!’”

Yep. Well said, comrade. The reason the Bambi jacked up my empathy that afternoon was the utter deprivation with which she treated her young body. Because past all that desperate glamour and paint, hid a self-induced violence by her poor self-esteem which was most likely already reconfirmed by the self-loathing scumbags of this town (i.e.: agents, managers, boyfriends). Because you see, my comrades, around here—it’s difficult to be enough! There is a permanent hum of advice that hangs above women’s heads along with LA-LA’s smog: Too Fat / Too Old / Too Brown / Too Foreign / Too Brunette / Too Smart / Too Something. (Those are my favorite old tags.) It takes oh so much fucking work to never let go of your authentic self; because if you do—one un-fine day, you’ll wake up as a washed-up cocktail waitress with blistered feet and soul, realizing that your two future solutions are: 1. to go back to school; or 2. to bait yourself a rich guy who’ll buy you your Happily Ever After.

So, here comes my prayer, my comrades, for the sake of my own self, the women I know and the Bambi’s I wish I’d known before their fall: May the very womb of our Mother Fuckin’ Nature grant us the courage to hold on to our fat asses!May the armies of our shrinks and girlfriends shield us from being chipped away by those who live in hatred of themselves! May we wake up to the mirrors that sing in the voice of Maria Callas: “You are the fairest one of all—and I love your ass!” And may we be lucky enough to be accompanied by men who worship our fat behinds, and when the schizophrenic voices chime in—shag some sense into us.

Those who know me—and now, those who read me—will testify that meekness is just ain’t my style. Oh sure, I can be gentle and kind as a friend. As a lover, having cradled many men’s heads on my bosom and their secrets in my heart, I tend to be more maternal in the bedroom. But my years of quietly struggling as a closeted, unpublished writer who blushes when accepting praise and negotiates her pay only at the end of a conversation—after fulfilling the service with flying colors—have magically come to a closure last year. Hundreds of odd jobs, millions of unpublished words and dozens of shared writing spaces later, this year I’ve launched an endeavor that, besides granting me a daily artistic orgasm, in the words of my current lover, “has added inches to my dick.”

Speaking of a writer’s dick, recently devouring the February issue of Esquire (aka: my Bible), I’ve discovered an editorial on the topic of our contemporary writers’ temperament. Using James Frey, who not too long ago was brought down by the Mighty Oprah for committing plagiarism, as its archetype of a flawed, fallen—and recently resurrected—writer, the article refuses to tear this, may I say, “colleague” of mine to pieces. To the contrary, it advertises the more unorthodox methods of this writer’s art and publishing technique as ballsy. Because you see, my comrades, according to the critic, we have entered an age of “literary in-betweenness” in which everyone and their friggin’ mother wants to be a writer and has access to self-publishing via the non-discriminating WWW-dot. You don’t have to live in my city—just any city—to know that every Starbucks is held hostage by such wannabes who glare from their tables at the common folk ordering their lattes a little too loudly for their taste. So: the competition is fierce! Add to that the opportunistic celebrities cashing-in on their fleeting fame by publishing and promoting their poorly written memoirs—and the young, aspiring writer is fucked.

So, what does James Frey have on all of us in this age of “literary in-betweenness”—which I prefer to tag as Mother Literature’s Taint? Well, comrades, I tell you: It isn’t primarily talent! What it takes to be a paid artist these days is a non-apologetic self-promotion, Kanye-Fuckin’-West-style. (See the same critic’s bit on that loud mouth (and my occasional archangel): http://www.esquire.com/features/thousand-words-on-culture/kanye-west-twitter-1210). Sure, Kanye tends to push the envelope a bit too far, Tweeting from his decked-out bathroom or stealing a moment of fame from some wide-eyed mediocre singer. But how else to get our attention in these days of information overdose? When it comes to the chosen art of my own—and Mr. Frey’s—the situation gets even trickier. I mean: Who the fuck is still reading literature these days? Even the ever-so-humble Dave Eggers had to venture out into screenwriting to earn himself more serious cash.

So, instead of head diving into my self-denial about being deserving or catering to my endless bullshit to be magically discovered one day, I prefer to follow the footsteps of the loudmouths and embrace the available means of distribution and self-promotion. Because the reality is: When this evening, like other actors and artists in town, I clock-in for my 7-hour shift of catering to drunks at my night gig, I’ve already done my art for the day. I’ve already fucking published! And considering I am never meek in my words, I would’ve already experienced my artistic catharsis; so when asked what I wanna be when I grow up, I can answer with esteem and calmness that comes from doing—not dreaming.

Of course, when I return home, I’ll have to collect the consequences of my art via the hateful commentary on my obnoxiousness and misinterpretations of my intensions by well-wishers. Just last night, for instance, a male reader threatened to scream at my face—then asked me out on a date. (Try and guess where I told him to go!) And you know what, my comrades? Mazel tov! As Mr. Frey’s career proves once again, there is no bad publicity. So, V is not here to be liked: I’m here to speak up—and be paid for it!

Finally, I must chime-in here as a woman writer—because I can. Or actually, because I must! Because this is my bloody blog—and because the above mentioned Esquire piece included ZERO writers of my gender, while complaining about the sexless literature of today. Newsflash, ladies: As an artist, you are not gonna be seeing any greens if you get yourself locked-up, like Charlotte Bronte, and then shrug off all inquiries about your writing by saying, “Oh, I’m just writing a diary.” Or thank-you cards. Or whatever the fuck. Speak up! Sarah Silverman or Zadie Smith style! Sing like Jhumpa Lahiri or holler like Rinku Sen (http://feministing.com/). Do your quirky thing like my girl Molly McAleer (http://molls.tumblr.com/) or grow up to be the sarcastic, poignant, brilliant cunt Manohla Dargis. But speak, for Mary’s sake! That way, perhaps, while we live through this era of Mother Literature’s Taint, the Esquire critics won’t have to point out the sexlessness of this era’s collective writing. Be obnoxious, like the shady Mr. Frey and the douchy Kanye, and:

As every woman I know, I have the type of relationship with my “motha” that makes me smile sardonically when speaking of her and roll my eyes back (far back enough to lose my contacts in my skull) when hearing other daughters bitch and moan. “My life had stood—a loaded gun,” wrote a suffragette nearly two centuries ago. I could easily misquote her, and on the topic of mother say: “My love had stood—a loaded gun.” (Want irony? Mother’s name does indeed translate to “Love” from Russian). Or I could accept that the trials and tribulations woven into my life by my mother’s hands (her hands: always baby-soft, manicured but with a grip) have made my life worthy of storytelling. Our three-decade long love story is one of an absurdist comedy, an exhausting epic, and a heartbreaking tragedy. She is my rock of Sisyphus. My Ariadne’s thread. My Pandora’s box. My cross. My heart. My very Love.

To this day, she sneaks into every character of my fiction whom I adore and despise equality. Every woman of tremendous beauty and charm that I think up (or fall in love with on a daily basis on the street) is—Mother. Before I am aware, I hear her roaring laughter in my pages, her passive-aggressive sigh and overly dramatic delivery. I see her flirtatious hair-flips and shoulder jerks, and the darting of her feline eyes. Her killer sexuality that makes men act like moronic children is not one I could’ve thought up as an author. As I age into my womanhood, I observe her lines come through on my face and hips, like a superimposed image. As I mature as an artist, I accept that she is the main source of my inspiration and work—the very point of it all; and the sooner I surrender to that, the sooner my art will flourish. Mother: had not only granted me my life—she granted me my livelihood.

All this—is just a prelude, my comrades. A little 101 on my Love.

The other day, with mother on a speaker phone in my car, I had to pull off the road; for this rambunctious, loud, dangerously charming woman had me in tears from her bit on dating. Regardless never having read my blog, mother had decided to contribute. Nyet, nyet: More accurately, she demanded her own column! To this wisdom on her dating life as an older woman, I subject you, my readers; for you—as I—do not have a choice to avoid my “motha.” (Although I do wish, you could hear these words for yourself, heavily laced with a Russian accent, directly out of the woman’s gorgeous mouth—and you’d lose your shit as well):

I. “The second you call a man your “baby”—he starts shitting his pant.” Mother was never a nurturing type of woman, as I have learned in my own childhood. She is sort of like Stalin when it comes to love: The more they fear you—the better they love you. It is understandable then that she never catered to her man; and one certain way to make my mother retract her affection or watch her phenomenal hips sway side to side as she walks away and leaves your ass for good—is to act needy. Herein lies the lesson for the mankind: Unless sick or on your deathbed, don’t let a woman see your weakness!

II. More on that topic: “I am not mothering another human being—unless it comes out of my vagina.” In my childhood, my mother had reiterated a few times that I had stolen all of her love. Her love was very tough, but apparently—it was love. Anyway: No man, she said, including my father, could ever claim her heart—for it already belonged to me. Although I have yet to experience my own motherhood, I agree with this unforgiving philosophy: A child should always remain a parent’s priority. Add to that the priority of nurturing and perfecting the self, and I predict that when a mother, my hands will be full. However, this is not a single-edged sword because I will demand the same from my man: When raising a child together, grant most of your love to our offspring—and take care of your own shit (for I have neither the time nor the patience to do it for you).

III. “It’s too late to be switching to mineral water—when your liver is falling out.” Like mother like daughter, I too possess high expectations when it comes to my man’s health. However, my opinion had to be developed with time; and as my last love story proves, I should’ve listened to my mother sooner. Unlike hers, my belief has little to do with the man’s appearance though, but everything—with his longevity for the sake of our children (and consequentially, for the sake of our partnership): One’s health is one’s own responsibility.

IV. Finally, because mother was never the one to beat around the bush, here is the best summary of her high dating standards: “If he gave me a tub of borscht in wartime, I still wouldn’t fuck him.” Clearly, authentically and to the point—that’s the gist of mom. I wish I could think this shit up on my own, my comrades, but because I can’t, live and learn from the woman: Do not lower your expectations, for if you do—you alone will suffer the consequences.

She is good, ain’t she? But as I have learned for myself, mother is good in small doses. So, process these four bits of enlightenment for now, my comrades; and start jonesing for her return.

(This is being published from JFK, despite the ungodly hour of the morning and the painfully inconvenient commute that got me here. What’s that, haters?! V can’t hear you!):

As I depart from the significant New York loves of my insignificant life and return to my younger affairs on the West Coast, I dedicate my words to those that will come after: the young girls (whether I know them or not) that have intertwined their tiny, merely transparent fingers with the arteries of my heart and the female offspring of my strictly selected Club of Comrades. To the East Indian girl child that, at the first second of our meeting in NY’s capital, became my shadow; invaded my writing space—unaware that a woman could claim that—and watched my every keyboard tap; then ran off to get her own paper and a red crayon. To the adored blondie born to my feminist mentor in New Jersey whose Happily Ever After happened with a woman; and who by her mere existence, gave me the courage to write my own love stories. And to the unfamiliar brown girl with snowflakes in her curls who followed her mother that leapt into a random elevator ride in Manhattan; who then persevered past the awkward silence inside, examined the crowd and exclaimed:

“Oh gosh! It’s like all girls in here!” making the rest of the women—some radically young, others aged past their youthful anxiety—laugh and yelp and howl; uncensored and relieved, if just for a minute.

"Blessed Art Thou among Women" by Gertrude Kasebier, 1899

First, to my brown god-daughter back in Albany: May your path be filled with obvious choices that lead you to your better self. May your soul be fueled by the gods of the old country, but your mind—by those of the new. May your mother’s unconditional love open paths for you that were never possible in her own youth; but may you always be exposed to the confidence a woman is granted when persevering through conflicts. You will be my next Jhumpa Lahiri, or M.I.A., or Sonia Gandhi. May you become whoever and whatever you desire; but when asked what that is, may you be able to say, “Why not?” rather than “May I?” I pray the world is made out of non-existent doorways for you and walkways paved with “YES”; and that sometimes, you will tread with me (I—in my Siberian coat, you—with stubborn rainbow colors on your mittens and henna on your hands) to show me your future world, as I show the aged yet unexhausted one of mine.

To the sporty, curious, poignant Irish-Jewish cherub in the City of Angels (and the author of this blog’s title): Because your parents have suffered enough to fulfill your own life’s quota, may it never get in the way of your possibilities. May you never lose the insatiable need to repeat a question, or to touch another woman’s skin just to understand what it’s like to be in it. NEVER apologize for your art! As the multitude of imperfect adults guards your life from repeating their mistakes, I shall gladly lead you past my own. I’ll tell you the tales of my survival and show that a woman may stand by her failed choices, because overcoming them makes a soul light enough to soar. So, may you soar, my strong youngster, sometimes in step with me, but mostly ahead. If ever gravity gets a hold of you, I shall catch you from falling—if you let me. But this I ask of you regardless (because you shall always remain exceptional, I’m sure)—teach me about the ways I have not seen and the tricks my wings have yet to try.

To the tomboy born to a woman of tremendous kindness: May you always be ahead of your time! When asked by your teachers, may you tag yourself however, but always understand yourself as “special.” May you continue to climb, much faster and more capable than your parents. Upward, my darling heart, always upward; even though gravity may insist otherwise. Never cry when you fall down, neither in a playground nor in an office full of suits; and always celebrate the pain, for in those very seconds, you learn to shift gears. May you always outrun and outsmart your own age group and leave me scratching my head with your riddles.

Having had one cunt of a year in 2010, I have established my newest pet peeve: men who act like broads with troubled ovaries. Actually, it’s more than a pet peeve. It’s a No-No, a Never-Again, a Please-Go-Away-and-Die type of a thing. I understand that in this day and age of crying, pouting, indecisive males all over reality TV, my nostalgia for Clint Eastwood as the leading prototype for our men and sons is painfully unrealistic. Yet still, I can live the rest of my life without seeing a man throw a fit that puts the girls of Pretty Wild to shame.

What brought this on? I’m out on a girl date the other day, having a perfectly delightful and stimulating lunch, when the booth in the dangerous proximity to mine gets invaded by a couple with a newborn. Right off the bat, it’s a fucking production: While the formerly attractive woman timidly trots at the tail of the procession, the young father is pointing out the most suitable seating arrangement to the hostess—with his pinky! (I whip out my notebook to jot down my thoughts on this lightweight while my girls get quiet. We are in for a treat!) When the clan is finally situated, our waitress’s every attempt to speak to the mother is rebuffed by this male specimen who has by now untangled his firstborn out of the stroller and slid out of the booth. Without having looked at the menu, he creates the family’s customized lunch order on everyone’s behalf, throws it over his shoulder and walks away from the table, leaving the mother whipped, defeated and most likely suicidal.

From here on, he proceeds to parade through every isle of the joint in order to soothe his non-crying child, so that it would go back to sleep—after it was awoken by being taken out of the stroller in the first place. (Right?!) My head begins to hurt from restraining my eyeballs from popping out of their orbits; but here is where it gets better! After a few rounds, the young father begins to side-step behind the bar stools of other males occupied with a football game on the bar’s flat screens. He literally glides, zigzagging, Apolo-Ohno style (on ice, not Dancing with the Stars) while perking up his lips and holding a terrifyingly prolonged sound of:

At first, he manages to attract some endeared reactions from a few baby-crazed females on the floor but ends up rebuffing all of their approaches in the same fashion as he’s practiced on our waitress. He ignores all inquiries about the age or the gender of the child (interestingly, the baby is wrapped in all white) and continues to glide ‘n’ shush. So: He is really after the male contingent here, I think. I’m fascinated.

(Where was the mother, you might wonder? She was highly unimpressed, stuffing her face from a trough of sweet potato fries, while all alone at the booth so particularly chosen by her partner. I predict she would be oppressed by loathing her poor choice of a male with whom to procreate if she weren’t so well-medicated for her postpartum depression.)

While I begin to wonder about the nauseated feeling in my gut, my girls attack our waitress:

“What’s the deal with him?”

“I bet he beats the shit out of her!” the waitress scoffs a bit too loudly because the man bitch (who has under-tipped her, by the way!) is now putting on his last act: loading the stroller, barking at the mother and taking the longest exit route, via the bar.

Aha, I think: the Chris Brown Syndrome. Have women finally caught up in their pursuit of equality to breathe down the necks of insecure, incompetent, talentless males who, due to their impotence to compete with other men, reaffirm their strength on their wives and girlfriends? The bitchy, estrogen-pumped specimen of my afternoon adventure had to be lucky enough to land himself a partner more intelligent and attractive than his girly ass; and instead of counting his blessings and praying to her image, he fabricates the ways in which she may need him—often in the name of love and marriage—then makes sure she is somewhat dependent and keeps her under his heel. When in public, then, he has no choice but to overcompensate, because he relies on the sympathy vote to justify the atrocities of his domestic behavior; and when it comes to other men, he flexes via the appearance of his woman or child. Case closed.